


The Soul of Wit

by sugarybowl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M, and update rating if necessary, just because sometimes i just write drabbles that don't go anywhere else?, will add more ships as they come up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-26 04:17:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15655602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarybowl/pseuds/sugarybowl
Summary: The place where my homeless Inception drabbles go.





	1. Speechless

**Author's Note:**

> Please feed the author, she is sensitive and hides in a corner without writing for a few months if no one says hi.

            The thing is Arthur isn’t a quiet man. Sure, sometimes he keeps his own council and observes, but by and large he says what he means, and he says it loudly, isn’t afraid to get into it at whatever decibel is necessary and has been known to throw down at a karaoke bar when there’s enough whisky to go around. The thing is though, that Eames makes him speechless. Just now as he balances a drunk and angry Ariadne on one shoulder, an overnight bag, and box of leftovers he still has the clarity of mind to turn around wink and compliment Arthur’s tight trousers. Fucking speechless.


	2. And Throw Away the Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for deinvati's prompt which is the image below <3

Arthur’s hands are deep in his pockets as he stands back and watches Eames go. He is making his way down the chain link fence of a bridge overlooking a river that only ever dreams of the Seine.

“You look like a vagrant,” he says, as a matter of fact.

“Thank you, darling,” Eames replies with an easy smile, “It does take a lot of money to look this cheap.”

He takes a couple of steps closer, his hands still resolutely dug into the safety of his well-tailored pants.

“Dare I ask?”

“I think it’s a little bit obvious,” he says as he pulls off two locks at once, “but you do like to find excuses to flutter around me, don’t you pet?”

“Why, Eames,” he sighs, “why are you picking locks off a lover’s bridge?”

“Practice,” he says as he chucks one into the river.

“You know how to pick a lock, Mr. Eames you could do it in your sleep,” he insists, before sweeping his arm out at the man as if in evidence, “you’re doing it one handed while looking at me.”

“Yes, dear Arthur, but these are many locks of all brands of all corners of the world. They all of them make the most pleasant sound when they chink against the fencing here and,” he stops, turning fully to look at him with that look of knowing and wanting to know more, “do you want to know pleases me the most?”

Arthur snatches a lock from Eames’s hand and studies it, keeping his silence as he takes in the latest victim. It’s the kind of turn lock kids use on their lockers back home – a bright purple thing that you could knock open with a strong wind.

Finally, he looks back at Eames and raises the gaudy thing as if to explain it, “Undoing the promise of love of a hundred stupid backpackers?”

“Making room for more, Arthur,” Eames says in the voice of a teacher who has gone over this lesson before, “more stupid backpackers who think they’re in love, yes, and more octogenarians on one last honeymoon together, and parents who have figured the real love of their lives are their sprogs, and girls in love with girls making plans in a city where no one knows them. I like making room for more, Arthur, it’s good practice.”

“But practice for what?” he asks, no longer teasing or judging or pretending. Eames smiles the little smile, the one that hides behind a coffee cup or the cheapest beer on tap and never lies to him.

“Shut up and help me,” Eames mutters after a moment, “you’ll figure it out.”


End file.
